Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

9. Veyka

9

VEYKA

We awoke just as the sun began its descent.

Arran was wrapped around me, holding me as if he could personally chase away every threat that came my way. But Parys was still dead, and Arran could not protect me from that.

We ate in near-silence. Then dressed in it as well. What was there to say?

The only sound was the near constant rumble of Arran’s beast at the back of my consciousness. He was on high alert. Perhaps he always would be now that the Second Great War had truly begun.

Voices began to filter in through the door that connected our bedroom to the shared sitting room.

I stared into the mirror above my dressing table. When a servant had brought us our meal, I’d asked them to send word to Cyara that I would tend to myself this evening. I brushed my hair, managed a serviceable plait, and washed my face. Thick lines framed my eyes, their blue duller than usual.

The ache inside of me was different than when Arran lost his memories, but still so cruelly sharp. If Arran was my soul, then Parys was my smile. As I stared at my reflection, I wondered if I would ever feel my lips curve in genuine happiness again. Or would every smile, from now until eternity, be forced?

I did not have eternity, I reminded myself.

My life was the cost of banishing the succubus. I only had to fake the smiles until then. Somehow, that made it easier.

Arran appeared over my shoulder, his gleaming dark hair still wet from his bath, brushed back and tied at the nape of his neck. There hadn’t been time for him to shave, and the shadow on his jaw was more beard than stubble now. It suited him, made him even rougher and more brutally handsome.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

No.

A dramatically melancholy sigh slipped from my chest. “I will never be ready for war.”

Arran’s jaw ticked. “Ironic, for someone who loves bloodshed.”

Ancestors, he knew me so well. A few sarcastic comments and he already knew that was the armor I’d wear to protect me from the weight of my mourning.

He held out a hand. I accepted it, pulling myself to stand. “At the time and place of my choosing. Not like this.”

“You are not alone.” Arran squeezed my hand. “You never will be again.”

Oh, Arran.

I would not be alone. But he would.

There were no sarcastic comments to dull the sharpness of that realization as it lodged between my ribs, as devastating as any blade.

I would confide my fear to him eventually. My intentions. He deserved that much. But in that moment, Annwyn had to come before my own selfish desire to live.

So I squeezed his hand back and let him lead me through the doorway to join the rest of our court.

Lyrena paced the length of the room, her Goldstone armor freshly polished, hair plaited with gold, more rings than I’d ever seen on her fingers. Gold, gold, gold. She was practically glowing with it. Armor of a kind, I supposed.

By comparison, Cyara was so pale she looked like she wanted to disappear. She was back in white, the color she’d always worn in the goldstone palace, though the cut of her gown reflected our terrestrial sanctuary. Her skin was nearly as pale as her wings. The only splashes of color were the copper of her hair and the bright red ringing her eyes. She’d been crying.

As Arran and I moved into the room, the outer door swung open and a little tornado burst in.

Osheen was half a step behind his ward, snagging her by the back of her wool dress and tugging her backward. “Maisri,” he admonished. “Out with you. A war council is no place for a child.”

Maisri squirmed from his grasp in the way that only a child could manage. “But—”

“I summoned her,” I said sharply. I heard Arran’s dry chuckle behind me. Everyone else was silent.

“Osheen, come forward,” I said, stepping up to the rectangular table that had been serving as our meeting place since our arrival at Eilean Gayl. My voice softened. “I thought you’d want Maisri here for this.”

All eyes were on me as I lifted my hand and placed Excalibur on the table. For months, I had been unable to touch it, knowing it had been the weapon in my hand that delivered Arran’s near-fatal wound.

But I understood now that I could not run from the curse of my Pendragon blood—and that included the sword that had been passed down from parent to child for more than seven thousand years.

Osheen’s throat bobbed as he looked first to the sword, then up at me. “Your Majesty?”

“This is not the Round Table. But these are my Knights.” I gestured to the others assembled before me and Arran. Then I unsheathed Excalibur. “I should have done this months ago.”

I felt Arran step up to my shoulder, and it was he who said, “Kneel.”

With careful grace, I lowered Excalibur’s swirled amorite blade to Osheen’s left shoulder. “Do you swear fealty to Annwyn, to protect the Terrestrial and Elemental Kingdoms of the Fae, and to offer your true and wise counsel when called upon by the High King and Queen?”

His eyes were not on me as he spoke the vow, but on Maisri. “I do.”

I lifted the blade over his head to rest on his right shoulder. “Osheen, I dub thee a Knight of the Round Table. For all that has been and all that will ever be. Rise.”

The rectangular table was nowhere near as auspicious as the one Guinevere had gifted me. But as Osheen rose, the others stepped forward to encircle it, taking their places as they might have taken their seats.

All except one.

“A table of destiny,” Gwen whispered.

She’d stepped in behind Osheen and Maisri. She stood with her back pressed to the door. Her face may well have been hewn from the same stone as the wall on either side of her for all the emotion it showed.

Cyara finished for her. “ Five shall be with you at Mabon. One is not yet known, but the bravest of the five shall be his father. When he comes, you will know that the time for the Grail is near .” Her voice caught, just for a second. “ The last is the Siege Perilous. It is death to all but the one for which it is made—the best of them all—the one who shall come at the moment of direst need. ”

As she spoke, the fine hairs on the nape of my neck rose. I’d heard too many prophecies in the last year—and suffered their rewards and consequences. Merlin had made this one when Guinevere first gifted me the table.

Merlin—the Shadows, Igraine, killing Parys. The determination that had settled in my chest threatened to crumble.

“After the Tower of Myda, we were five,” Lyrena said. She lifted her hand and began ticking off names. “Arran, Parys, Lyrena, Cyara, and Guinevere.”

“And me. That makes six,” I choked out, forcing down my grief. I could not force it down forever; I’d learned that lesson well enough. But I could contain it for now.

“You are not a Knight of the Round Table, you are the High Queen of Annwyn,” Cyara said, wings twitching.

Panic flooded my veins. Another prophecy. Another price to pay.

Arran’s hand landed on the small of my back. I sucked in a breath, centering all of my attention on that steady weight. “What does that make Arran?” I hoped I sounded more flippant than I felt.

“The table was given to you , Veyka, as was the prophecy,” Cyara countered. “Anyone who sits at it is one of your Knights. Even the king.”

“That leaves two unfilled seats. The Siege Perilous and the one not yet known,” Lyrena mused.

“And who will be this supposed male’s father? Arran? I promise you, I am not with child.” Arran stiffened behind me at the mere mention.

Down, boy, I soothed his beast. I’m sure you will know before any of us when I’m carrying your pup.

I received a growl in response.

I rolled my eyes, returning Excalibur to its sheath as I spoke. “This prophecy could take hundreds of years to come to fruition.”

There was a beat of silence where I thought the topic blessedly dropped.

“What if facing the succubus is not the moment of direst need?” Cyara said quietly.

Then there was actual silence.

Arran’s hand slid from the small of my back to my waist. He was not content to rest it there; his fingertips dug into my side through the draped silk layers of the dressing gown I’d donned.

I will always protect you, his beast growled.

I did not have the heart to tell him that I was beyond his protection now.

I leaned forward, planting the palms of both my hands flat on the rectangular table where my Knights had gathered. “Prophecies can be twisted. Merlin may well have left out a line or two for spite alone. Merlin is lost to us. But Igraine is not.”

Discussion ended.

And another begun.

“Maisri,” Cyara said promptly. “Go find my mother, Minerva. She will have use for your quick hands.”

I waited until the door closed behind the child before lifting my gaze to Gwen. “Tell me how it happened.”

Not the succubus. My mother.

She understood. In painstaking detail, she recounted her own attempts to dismantle the Shadows while Parys researched in the goldstone palace library. She told us about the arrival of the humans from Eldermist and the protection she’d offered in my name. And finally about the night she and Parys had snuck through the secret passageways in a fatal pursuit.

Arran stiffened behind me at the mention of the passageways, but his beast was silent.

Somehow, Gwen kept her composure as she detailed the coming of the succubus to Baylaur. It had begun in the palace guard barracks. Many had died in that first wave of attack. For nearly two months, while Arran struggled to regain his memory and I tried to secure amorite, Gwen had held together a crumbling city.

When she finished, I had but one thought. “Death is too kind a punishment for the Dowager.”

Arran’s fingers tightened to the point of bruising.

But before anyone could murmur assent, a sharp knock sounded from the door.

We turned as one to the sound.

“Enter,” Arran said.

I blinked at the female who entered. I’d seen with my eyes when Elora stepped through the rift from Baylaur to Eilean Gayl. But I had not seen with my heart.

She was clean, no doubt thanks to the hospitality of Lady Elayne, but a bath could not disguise the fatigue of living through the trauma Gwen had just described. Elora’s dark brown skin was duller than usual, and deep purple bruises beneath her eyes spoke to weeks without enough sleep.

“Elora,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice steady. “I am glad to see you here. Guinevere has told us of your efforts to protect Baylaur. We are in your debt.”

She bowed deeply. “It is nothing more than my duty, Majesties.”

Exhaustion was not the only change the months had wrought. A sort of preternatural stillness had settled over her. A calm and self-assurance that had not existed before, in her mother’s shadow.

“I want to debrief with you in detail. Report to the Great Hall after breakfast tomorrow. Osheen and Gwen, you will join us,” Arran said, clear and concise.

“Of course.” Elora nodded. “But that is not my reason for coming. One of my guards reported something strange to me at the evening meal. I thought it best you hear for yourself.”

She stepped back towards the open doorway, motioning in someone from the corridor beyond.

I nearly stopped breathing at the sight of her. The female who entered wore little more than rags. What had once been a draped gown was in shreds, the edges darkened with black droplets, as if… as if the succubus had torn and clawed at her. As she stepped through the door, her legs became visible, as did the sharp red gouges that marred them.

She was an adolescent, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. I opened my mouth to ask where her parents were—and shut it.

If they weren’t with her now, it was not by choice. Ancestors.

“Y... Your Majesties,” the girl trembled, attempting a bow that sent her stumbling. Lyrena rushed forward, catching her arm to keep her from falling face first onto the flagstones.

“Rise and be welcome,” I said. My heart twisted at the sight of her legs quaking beneath her. “What do you have to tell us?”

“Well, it could be nothing.” She glanced wildly around the room, her eyes lingering on Osheen and Arran. Terrestrials—she’d probably never left the goldstone palace in her entire life, and now she was in a strange land, surrounded by strangely powerful fae, alone.

I caught Cyara’s eye. A tilt of my head, and she understood my meaning, pulling out a chair and helping Lyrena ease the girl into it. Osheen and Arran both stepped back toward the opposite wall, giving her as much space as the room would allow.

“Tell us,” Cyara urged with more gentleness than I ever could.

“It could be nothing,” the girl said again. “But I was with the injured, and the healer had us near the balcony so we could get fresh air.” She paused, taking in a few rapid breaths. “It may have been the herbs she gave me, truly. It could be nothing…”

I sank down to one knee before her. I could think of nothing else to do, other than that I was tall and wide and imposing, even in a dressing gown. I did not know her; not even her name. But I knew about trauma. I understood a child whose entire world was ripped away from them, layer by layer, until nothing but pain remained.

I took her hand.

She still could not bring her gaze to meet mine, instead focusing on where our hands joined on her knee.

“Fires, Your Majesty,” she said. “We saw fires in the mountains.”

Feeling flooded my chest. For a moment, I longed for the sweet oblivion where I’d dwelled after Arthur’s death. Numbness was so much easier than caring.

But I did care. And that feeling that flooded my chest? It was hope.

I turned to look at Elora. “The elemental troops you sent away?”

Elora shook her head. “They know better than to light fires and risk alerting the enemy to their presence. It must be civilians.”

That dastardly hope flared brighter.

“Come,” Cyara said, replacing my hand with hers. “I will take you back to your lodgings and find you something clean to wear.” She led the girl out of the sitting room, closing the door firmly behind them.

My words were a heartbeat behind. “We have to rescue them.”

Arran’s eyes darkened. “We do not know if that is viable.”

“They may have already met up with our troops in the mountains,” Elora reasoned. As she spoke, she produced a map, smoothing it out on the rectangular wooden table. It was worn from the heavy use it had seen since the siege of Baylaur, but I recognized the Effren Valley instantly.

“The fires she spotted were here.” Elora pointed to the Blasted Pass. “There are other ways in and out of the Effren Valley, but civilians do not know them. Nightwalkers—succubus—do not build fires. They must be escapees from Baylaur.”

“But are there males among them? They could have been decimated by the succubus already, since the girl saw them last,” Arran reasoned. I hated that he was right.

“We communicated as much as we could with the city, but there is no telling when they fled. They may not realize the danger their males pose,” Elora confirmed.

But Elora and Arran were not discussing how to rescue them. They were discussing whether to rescue them. “I will not leave my subjects to die alone in the Blasted Pass when we have the resources to save them.”

Arran wisely did not reach for me as he said, “There are casualties in every war, Veyka.”

My hands went to my waist instinctively; like an idiot, I had not donned my belt and scabbards.

“If we deploy any energy around Baylaur, it would be best used finding what remains of the elemental army,” Arran continued. “We need to prepare for war at the time and place of our choosing.”

“This is my choice.”

“The humans in Eldermist will help us.” Gwen no longer stood by the wall.

“Humans?” The word slid off of my tongue like the insult it was.

“The envoy you sent arrived in Baylaur. We gave them succor; fae females to guard their village.” Gwen pointed to the map. “The rift is here, not far from the Blasted Pass. We could bring the survivors in the mountains through the rift and the humans could shelter them. The last communication that came through, they were still in control of the village.”

“How long ago was that?” Arran asked.

“Ten days.” Gwen did not meet my eyes.

But Arran did.

My gaze bore right back into his. You are asking me to trust my subjects into the care of humans?

The humans were not responsible for Arthur’s death . He must have seen the murder in my eyes, because he added— Not wholly.

I did not say or think a response to that. The problem with letting myself feel was that those feelings overwhelmed me.

Arran stroked a thumb over the head of his axe as his eyes scanned the map. There are already fae warriors among them.

I laughed derisively, not caring what everyone else in the room thought was happening. Some arguments were just for the King and Queen. The survivors in the mountains are not warriors. They are commoners. The humans could slaughter them in their sleep. You remember how they were when we were in Eldermist.

I do.

Arran lifted one hand to my cheek, cupping it as if we were alone, without a war council forming around us. He narrowed the world to just the two of us with that single touch. We have all changed since then. Maybe they have, too.

I closed my eyes and let myself pretend for a moment that we were not High Queen and King, that we did not have these monumental decisions to make every other minute.

We could bring them here.

Eilean Gayl is already bursting with the survivors from the palace. Eldermist is closer to their home. Arran’s warm breath caressed my skin. So they can return when we take back our city.

A promise—that we would win this war and restore our kingdom.

I opened my eyes. “Fine. Plan it.”